


A Perfectly Tailored Fit

by sospes



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4732487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots of interagency cooperation, featuring a search for a good suit, the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the aftermath of the Valentine affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Perfectly Tailored Fit

**1966**

“It’s _ruined_.”

Napoleon’s practically pouting. Illya not-so-subtly rolls his eyes—a bad habit he’s picked up from Gaby—and says, “Yes, I am aware. That is what happens when you unnecessarily throw yourself through windows.”

“It was hardly unnecessary, Peril,” Napoleon answers, still not actually looking at Illya. “All part of the mission. And a part of the mission, I might add, which saved your life.”

Illya shrugs. “I was dealing with it.”

Napoleon finally turns to him, one eyebrow raised. “You were dealing with it? So when I saw you flat on your back with six guards piled on top of you, that was you ‘dealing with it’?” He raises an eyebrow. “So glad I ruined my best suit for you.” 

Illya feels an unexpected flash of warmth, at that, because despite all this griping and whining, Napoleon _did_ ruin his best suit for him. Saved his life, too, because there’d been a knife approximately fourteen millimetres away from Illya’s throat when his partner came crashing through the nearest window, all guns blazing. Not that Illya’s going to admit to any of that, so he says, “It is just a suit.” 

Napoleon _rounds_ on him. “Just a suit? _Just a suit?_ This is tailored to me, fitted perfectly, with hidden inner pockets and a concealed sheath in the thigh. It’s one-of-a-kind, made for me by a grumpy English fellow in New York, and, more to the point, it’s the only suit I have with me.” Napoleon looks a little put out at his own words, and his shoulders slump a little. “Waverly’s call came with five minutes before I had to leave,” he says, by way of explanation. “I barely had time to find my shoes, let alone pack a case. So one suit. One, perfect suit, that is now, because of you, Peril, utterly ruined.” 

Illya has precisely zero sympathy. “We are in London,” he says perfunctorily. “Have you not heard of Savile Row?” 

Napoleon gives him an acid look. “Yes, Peril, I know,” he snaps, but there’s no real heat behind it. “The concierge has already made me an appointment at what he assures me is the finest tailor in London. Am I not allowed a moment to mourn the passing of an old friend?” He brandishes the scraps of grey silk lining that are dangling from his hand. 

Illya unfolds himself from his chair. “No,” he answers, and then, “Shall we go?” 

There’s a taxi already waiting for them downstairs. Illya follows Napoleon in, and then when they’re both seated as comfortably as possible (Illya’s too big for the taxi; Napoleon is wearing a borrowed shirt that’s far too big, so obviously looks ridiculous), the cabbie says, “Where to?” 

“Kingsman Tailors,” Napoleon supplies. “On Savile Row.” He glances back to Illya, shrugs. “Apparently they’re the best.” 

Illya frowns. “Kingsman,” he repeats, as the taxi pulls away from the pavement. “Does that name sound familiar to you?”

“Not particularly,” Napoleon says, cocks his head. “Why? You been before?”

Illya shakes his head, because this is the first time he’s been in London since he’s found himself a partner who’s occasionally more occupied with fashion than function. “No,” he says. “But still. The name is… familiar.”

Napoleon settles further into the taxi’s seat. “Well, if you come up with something a little more helpful than ‘familiar’, Peril,” he says, “do let me know. Until then, I need to think. Do I want the same style? Or should I go for something a bit more… retro? I heard that’s coming back.”

Illya tunes out his partner’s monologue on men’s fashion for the rest of the journey. 

The taxi takes seventeen minutes to reach Savile Row, and the driver drops them off right outside a shopfront emblazoned _KINGSMAN_. Illya squints at the shop out of the taxi window, peers at the smoking jacket and double-breasted suit on display in the windows—amazing quality, even he could tell you that—and doesn’t stop frowning. Kingsman. Kingsman. Where does he know that name?

“Coming, Peril?” Napoleon is smiling at him from the street, holding the taxi door open. “We do have other things to do today, you know.”

Illya grunts, and gets out of the taxi.

Kingsman Tailors, as it turns out, is fantastically accommodating. Two of the three fitting rooms are already occupied, but the tailor behind the desk—James, he says his name is—sweeps over to them the moment they step through the door, says, “How may I be of service?” 

Napoleon immediately starts to effuse about cut and finish, so Illya tunes out, studies the oak panelling and the polished brass. He feels out of place in this oasis of suits and sophistication, but he feels out of place in most of the places Napoleon drags him to so it’s not like he doesn’t have experience dealing with the feeling. He’s comfortable in his jacket and hat, and while Napoleon presses his new friend James about buttons, Illya prowls the shop floor.

There’s a reddish stain on the carpet in one corner. It’s obviously been scrubbed at half a dozen times, but it’s set so deep into the pile that it’ll never completely vanish unless the whole carpet is replaced. It also looks oddly like—

“Port.”

Illya turns sharply on his heel, hand already unconsciously going for the knife hidden in the lining of his jacket. There’s a dark-haired man standing behind him, bespectacled and wearing a suit even sharper than the one Napoleon is currently in mourning for, and he offers Illya smile. “An unfortunate spill a few days ago,” he explains. “A fine 1932. Such a waste.” 

There’s something Illya doesn’t like in that man’s eyes. Then again, this is the capitalist west, so that’s not entirely surprising. “Oh,” he says, aiming for disinterested sympathy, and turns back to Napoleon.

Who has, of course, vanished.

“Your friend is with James in fitting room three,” Illya’s new friend supplies. “There should be a chair in there, or you can wait out here.” 

Illya’s not sure that U.N.C.L.E.’s budget can handle him leaving Napoleon alone in a place like this. “Thank you,” he says, and heads to fitting room three. 

The man stands and watches him for a long moment, then, with quick purpose in his stride, goes up the stairs at the back of the shop. He takes them two at a time.

Illya settles into the leather armchair in fitting room three, and watches, half-amused, as James patiently suffers Napoleon’s fussing. Eventually, though, Napoleon actually lets the _professional tailor_ start taking measurements, and while James gets busy with the tape measure, Illya studies the fitting room because it’s that or start paying attention to whatever it is that his partner is saying about hemlines. 

The walls are covered in thick, dark green wallpaper, flecked here and there in regular order with faded gold leaf. The carpet is the same as the carpet on the main shop floor, albeit without any more port stains—Illya knows, he looked—and the furniture is nothing out of the ordinary: a chair, a table, a wraparound mirror, and hooks to hang the customers’ coats. Napoleon’s coat was not present for the incident with the bullets and the leaping, so it’s hanging from one of those hooks. There’s a dead leaf caught underneath the collar which Illya is tempted to leave as long as he can, and—

The dust. 

Illya feels a sudden tension slide through his body, and he has to force himself to not lean forward. James has moved on to the dimensions of Napoleon’s back and isn’t paying Illya any attention, but that’s not the point, not the point at all, because _the dust_. There are four hooks, and the one that’s furthest away from Illya is obscured by Napoleon’s coat. The middle two are coated in a thin skein of dust that dulls the shine of the metal, but the last one? The one closest to Illya’s chair? It _gleams_. It’s been touched repeatedly, over and over, so that there’s no time for dust to settle – and now that Illya’s looking, he can see the seam in the wall. It’s camouflaged so that it looks like a seam in the wallpaper, camouflaged _well_ , but Illya knows what he’s looking for. He knows a secret door when he sees one, and what use would a distinguished London tailors have for a secret door?

“Cowboy,” he says, keeping his voice easy and smooth, easy and smooth. “I have just remembered something pertaining to our business in Morocco.”

Napoleon’s shoulders stiffen at their code. It’s faint enough that even though James is currently taking upper arm measurements he doesn’t seem to notice, and Napoleon says, “Oh?”

“I’m afraid we need to discuss it immediately,” Illya says, faux-apologetic. “James, would you mind?”

The tailor is English, after all. He rolls up his tape measure, nods to Napoleon, says to Illya, “Of course, sir. I’ll be right outside.” 

Illya keeps smiling politely right until the door shuts behind them.

“Peril?” Napoleon says, hands loose and ready at his sides. “What is it? What’s the emergency?”

Illya doesn’t speak for a moment, just gets to his feet and goes to the hook. “It could be nothing,” he says, “but I want to be sure.” He reaches for the gleaming bronze hook, feels around the tip, runs his fingers down the sides. There are no pressure pads, no hidden levers, so Illya does what comes naturally and pulls. 

The hook comes sliding down, and the wall goes sliding back.

Napoleon whistles softly. “Nice call,” he says admiringly, and then steps around Illya, steps inside the hidden room. Illya rolls his eyes and swallows a warning about checking for alarms, then follows him. The room is small, a padded bench down the middle and neat, organised shelves on every wall, lined with pens, shoes, cigarette lighters, umbrellas, and machine guns. Napoleon has that particular gleam in his eyes that he only gets when he’s spotted something he really, really wants to steal, and he turns in a quick circle, says, “Peril, I think it must be my birthday.”

Illya loosens the knife in his jacket. “This is not good.”

Napoleon’s playing with a pair of slippers embroidered with the logo of the shop. “What, it isn’t good that we seem to have stumbled across a secret organisation hidden in Savile Row?” he asks, and takes a seat on the central bench. “No,” he agrees, and toes off his shoes. “No, you’re probably right. We should probably leave.” 

“Oh, I think it’s a little late for that.” 

Illya spins on his heel, snarl already splashed across his lips. The dark-haired man from the shop floor is standing in fitting room three, gun levelled at Illya’s head – and he seems to have brought along some friends. Three of them, to be precise, all wearing the same glasses, the same tailored suit, wielding the same gun, and they’re all looking at Illya with that same mask of professional calm. Illya’s calculating already. The doorway’s too narrow for them to be able to rush him, and he can deal with them if they come at him one by one – but the gun’s are an issue. He expected a tailor’s, not a secret society, so he’s only got the knife in his jacket and the gun fitted to the back of his right boot, and he’ll be dead long before he manages to get to that. Now, _Solo_ might have a chance: he’s already closer to the ground, so if he rolled and grabbed then maybe—

“These are _exquisite!_ ” Napoleon is apparently supremely unfazed by the men pointing guns at them. He’s slipped his feet into the slippers that decidedly aren’t his, and now he’s peering at them, flexing his toes. “Incredibly comfortable,” he says, “and yet highly stylish. And I think there’s a blade in the right sole?” He snaps his heels together and, true to his prediction, a squat blade pops out of the toe of the right slipper. “ _Great_ engineering,” Napoleon says, and finally looks up at their enemy. “May I possibly have a pair?”

The dark-haired man looks a little nonplussed. “No,” he snaps, and then says, “Take those off.” 

Napoleon does as he’s asked, kicks off the slippers, slips his feet back into his shoes, gets to his feet. “Not exactly hospitable,” he says, mostly to Illya.

Illya’s not in the mood to indulge his partner’s quips right now. 

The dark-haired man is watching them curiously, peering at them as if their faces will reveal all. “Who are you?” he asks. “KGB? CIA?”

“A bit of both,” Napoleon answers brightly, “but right now, we’re just after a suit.” 

The man sneers. “A likely story.” 

“True,” Illya grinds out. “Just a suit. Except Cowboy here had to go and pick this particular shop.”

“Hey!” Napoleon says indignantly. “You were the one who pulled the coathook, Peril.” 

“Because that was preferable to listening to you whine about your suit any longer.”

“Well, it’s only ruined because of you.”

“I did not ask you to jump through the window! I was dealing with the situation!” 

“Like hell you were,” Napoleon snaps. “Six guards. _Six of them._ Those are impossible odds even with the whole twitchy-hand thing you’ve got going on. It won’t kill you to admit a bit of vulnerability once in a while.”

Illya blinks at the unexpected outburst. “I don’t think now is the time for this conversation,” he says. 

Napoleon sniffs, sighs, says, “No, I suppose it isn’t.” He folds his arms across his chest, still wearing Illya’s far-too-big shirt, and says, “There’s no need for the guns, I promise. We’re the good guys.”

“Of course you are,” the dark-haired man says, clearly not believing a word, and levels his gun at Napoleons’ chest. 

A muscle twitches in Napoleon’s jaw. It’s a tic that Illya recognises, and Napoleon says, “Listen, run our names through your database. Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin.” Illya stiffens at that, but Napoleon just shoots him a sharp look and says, “We work for U.N.C.L.E., and I’m fairly sure that, if you’re the kind of operation I _think_ you are, you have contacts in all the major intelligence agencies. Our handler is Alexander Waverly, he’ll vouch for us.” He pauses, then says, almost plaintively, “And we really are just here to get a suit.” 

Their captor peers at them both a moment longer, then lets his gun drop. “Galahad, Percival, watch them. Gwaine, with me.” 

Which is how Illya ends up locked in fitting room three of Kingsman Tailors, hands cuffed, ankles bound, sitting back to back with his partner. Who’s still wearing a shirt that’s at least two sizes too big for him. 

“You know,” Napoleon says, “I think I know where you’ve heard the name ‘Kingsman’ before.”

Illya stirs. “Yes?”

The warmth of Napoleon’s back is almost comforting through Illya’s jacket. “Budapest,” Napoleon says. “That fortnight I spent being beaten and tortured?” 

He says it with such ease, such calm, but the memory is enough to clench a hand around Illya’s heart. “I remember,” he says. “What about it?”

“They kept asking me about various other organisations,” Napoleon explains. “The big names were in there, your former bosses, my former bosses, but there were other names in there, too, names I didn’t recognise. I’m fairly sure that one of them was Kingsman.” 

“Sounds plausible,” Illya finally allows. 

Something that sounds suspiciously like a sigh comes from behind Illya’s back, and he feels Napoleon go limp against him, his head lolling back to rest against Illya’s shoulder. “I really did only want a suit,” he says mournfully. “You had to go and mess that up for me.”

Illya can’t help but smile. “That is my job,” he says. “To prevent you from having any fun.”

Napoleon laughs. “No, I think _that_ would be Waverly.” He pauses. “I bet Waverly’s going to be pissed at us for this.”

Illya was having the same thought. “Gaby, too.” 

Napoleon hums his agreement. “She does keep telling me to keep you out of trouble.”

Illya scoffs. “She does not.”

“Does, too.” A pause, and then, “Where is she now, anyway? Muscat?”

“Dubai,” Illya corrects. “Muscat was last week. She will be back in London in two days.” 

“Shall we take her out to dinner?” 

“ _I_ will take her out to dinner,” Illya says. “ _You_ will not go anywhere. If you do, you will probably find another secret organisation and I do not want to be handcuffed again.”

“ _You_ found the secret door.”

“I am observant. You are trouble magnet.” 

“ _I_ didn’t go for a roll in the hay with six guards.”

“I was dealing with the situation!” 

“ _Gentlemen_.”

Illya feels his cheeks flush. By the look of it, the door to fitting room three has been open for a good few minutes – and Waverly is standing in the doorway looking down at them, a familiar faintly-exasperated expression on his face. 

“Sir,” Napoleon says brightly. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

Waverly’s eyebrow quirks. “I received a call from Arthur,” he says, “asking whether I had two agents who were incapable of dealing with a hostage situation without sniping at each other.”

“Sorry, sir,” Illya says. 

Napoleon is less repentant. “I assume you told them no?”

Waverly doesn’t respond to that. “I would order you both to forget all about this incident,” he says dryly, “but it seems that that might not be necessary.”

“Sir?” Illya asks. 

“U.N.C.L.E. has been deciding on a liaison agent with Kingsman for a little while,” Waverly says, “and now it looks like you boys have volunteered yourselves.” 

Illya doesn’t like the sound of that. “What does that mean?”

The dark-haired man appears at Waverly’s side. His gun is gone, and he eyes first Illya, then Napoleon, and says, “It means that Kingsman has a job for you.” 

Napoleon’s head thuds back against Illya’s shoulder. “Can I at least get my suit before you send us off to get shot at again?” 

Ten days later, after the almost-end-of-the-world, after Venice, New York, Tokyo, then Venice again, Illya stumbles into Kingsman Tailors and practically falls over onto the sofa. He’s got a week-ago bullet wound healing in one shoulder and a day-old knifewound scabbed down his cheek, but thirty seconds later Napoleon thuds into the sofa next to him and everything’s okay again. 

Chester King, codename Arthur, stands over them both. His dark hair is sleek and perfectly placed, his suit is unruffled. “This is a public establishment,” he says chidingly. 

“It’s five minutes ‘til closing,” Napoleon answers. “No one’s coming in.”

“If they do,” Illya grumbles, “I will remove them.” 

Napoleon snorts, and his shoulder presses against Illya’s arm, warm and solid. 

King doesn’t sit. He adjusts his cuffs, says, “Kingsman appreciates all your help, Agents. I’m sure we’ll be in touch again in the future.” 

Illya’s head snaps up. “We will?”

“Of course,” King answers, then pauses, smiles, says, “I’m sure that U.N.C.L.E. will need a hand before long.”

“I’d be offended,” Napoleon comments, “if I had the energy.” 

King nods, just once, then says, “Until next time.” 

Illya looks over at Napoleon. “You call taxi.”

“ _You_ call it.”

“ _You_ call,” Illya bites. “You got us into this. Never listen to concierge again.” 

Napoleon grumbles something inaudible, but before he can do anything other than complain, a voice calls from behind them. “Oh, and Mr Solo?” King appears again, and there’s a dark bag in his hands. “Your suit.” 

Illya stares dumbly at the bag. “Lot of work for damn suit,” he says, half-incredulous. 

Napoleon snatches the bag out of King’s hands and peers inside. “Nothing is too much work for a proper suit,” he says. 

King’s eyebrow quirks upwards. “Finally,” he says dryly. “Something we can agree on.” 

 

**1989**

A hand slaps down on Harry’s shoulder as he stands in the shadow of what used to be the Berlin Wall. “Should’ve guessed you’d have something to do with this,” an American voice says, far too close for comfort. 

Harry twists on instinct, nerves still alight from the strain of the past month, but he relaxes at the familiar face. Dark hair, flecked with silver. Bright eyes, surrounded by laughter lines. An old scar streaked across the forehead. “Solo,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting an old friend,” Solo answers. “She used to live on the wrong side of that thing, but even though we pulled her out she ended up settling in Berlin anyway.” He peers around them, through the crowds of revellers, drunk on the promise of the future. “They’re around here, somewhere,” he says. “Lost them back there in the naked students, but Illya tends to be hard to miss. They’ll turn up soon.” 

“I’m sure they will,” Harry says, and tries not to feel vaguely thrown by this familiarity coming from a man he’s met only once. But, then again, he is American. 

“So,” Solo says, hand still firm on Harry’s shoulder. “What was the play?”

Harry blinks. “The play?”

Solo gestures around them, to the remnants of the wall, to the streets that are overflowing with joy. “All this,” he says. “This kind of change doesn’t just _happen_ , I know that more than most. It needs… help. A little prodding to get started.” 

There’s an intensity in Solo’s eyes that Harry doesn’t recognise. The last and only time they met was at the Kingsman estate, where Solo was chewing the fat with Percival and his large, stoic Russian partner was—jarringly enough—playing with the dogs, and yes, Harry’s heard about the interagency partnership of the late sixties, read the reports and seen the photos, but he never really _believed_ it all. KGB and CIA? Recipe for disaster, even now – and so now, pinned by that playful, watchful, piercing gaze, Harry fights the sudden urge to adjust his tie. “Nothing much,” he says, which is typical Kingsman understatement for an operation that’s been running for five years. “Words in the right ear. Replacements at certain political levels. An edit to a speech here, a bullet there.” 

A smile plays around Solo’s lips. “Fine like a scalpel,” he says. He looks back up at the wall, and in the light of the fires burning through the dark streets, his cheekbones are like fine china. “We tend to have more of a sledgehammer approach.”

Harry thinks about the U.N.C.L.E. files he studied in training, and he says, “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. The Allaya affair? Masterful.” 

“Flatterer,” Solo says, but doesn’t rebut the compliment. 

For a moment, they stand together and watch the crowds. The air tastes like freedom. 

It’s Solo who breaks the silence, of course. “Got any plans for tonight?”

“I have to be back in London tomorrow morning,” Harry says. “The debrief on this operation is going to be more than extensive. I think Arthur is planning a week of interrogation before I’m released.” 

Solo nods thoughtfully. “So you have plans tomorrow morning and next week,” he says. “What about tonight?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “What are you suggesting, Mr Solo?”

The smile on Solo’s lips is all charm, but Harry had read enough of his file to realise that there’s a layer of wickedness hiding just below the surface. “Gaby, Illya and I are going to find something to eat,” he says. “Her apartment is in the middle of all this celebration and I don’t think it’s quite the place for a friendly catch-up. After that, we’re going for drinks. Would you care to join?” 

“I couldn’t possibly intrude,” Harry says quickly. 

“A Kingsman is never intruding,” Solo says graciously, and then he pauses, smiles a smile that’s tinged with melancholy. “Plus, I knew the last Galahad. He was a good man. It’d be good to get to know his successor.” 

Harry doesn’t know much about the man whose position he took, only that he was with Kingsman for thirty six years and that he died in Saudi Arabia, defusing an atomic bomb aimed at central Europe. He knows that he should say no, should make his way to the waiting jet and settle in for the flight back to London – but there’s something about the light in Solo’s eyes. 

That’s in Solo’s file, too. 

“Sorry,” Harry says. “I really do have to—”

“Cowboy!”

The shout comes from across the street, and Solo’s head snaps round like a puppet on a string. He beams, and calls back, “Peril! I was wondering where you’d got to!” 

Cowboy, Peril. Nicknames, not codenames. That’s in the file, and Harry looks around for the tall Russian he only remembers playing with dogs. The man’s not exactly hard to spot. He’s coming across the street towards them, cap pulled down low over the silver in his hair, and there’s a woman walking at his side, hair swept elegantly back off her face and her hand neatly in the crook of his elbow.

Harry blinks once, twice, and then looks again. 

“Nice of you to reappear,” Solo says, and claps Kuryakin on the shoulder. He half-turns towards Harry, says, “I found a fourth dinner guest.”

Kuryakin’s gaze flicks to Harry, sharp and keen despite the lines around the eyes, and he nods, says in thickly-accented English, “Galahad.” 

Harry probably shouldn’t be surprised that they remember him after a single meeting. They were once the best in the world, after all, and he says, “Mr Kuryakin.” He pauses, turns to the woman he’s spent most of the past month working with, says, “Miss Teller.” 

She reaches out, squeezes his offered hand. “Harry,” she says warmly. “I think congratulations are in order.”

“To you, as well,” Harry says. “None of this would have been possible without you.”

Teller waves a dismissive hand, says, “I’m just dabbling. I’m getting too old for all of this, really, but I’m always ready to work with a face like yours.” 

Harry feels himself flush, and not just because of the compliment. Solo is staring between him and Miss Teller, gaze narrowed, and he finally says, “Gaby. I thought you were _retired_.” 

Teller’s grin practically splits her face. “I moved back to Berlin,” she says, “to the city I grew up in, a city still split in two by politics and war, and you thought I’d retired? I think Illya’s right. You _are_ an awful spy.” 

Solo’s expression is grudgingly accepting. “I suppose that makes sense.”

Kuryakin pats Teller’s hand, still resting in the crook of his elbow. “I never thought you had retired,” he says, almost conspiratorially. “You are too good to retire.”

Solo blinks once, twice, then turns back to Harry, says, “Well, you absolutely have to come with us, now. Anyone good enough to merit Gaby’s praise needs to be wined and dined.” 

“I couldn’t,” Harry protests. 

“No, Napoleon is right,” Teller says. She slips her hand from Kuryakin’s elbow, who seems more amused than perturbed by the whole situation, and instead takes Harry’s arm, slim fingers wrapped around his upper arm. “I was hoping to catch you before you went back to London, anyway. Come. We’re going to a restaurant I’ve been saving for a special occasion.” She glances back at the wall, at the ruins of the wall, at the partygoers in the street and the bonfires flickering on the corners. “I think that tonight suffices.” 

Harry thinks about Berlin, about its ebb and flow, about its people and its politics, and then he looks over at Kuryakin, at Solo, at the agents he hopes he’ll one day become. “Well,” he says, finally. “I don’t think I could ever refuse you.” 

Teller chuckles and pats his hand. “Don’t tell Napoleon that,” she says. “He’ll get jealous.” 

Which is how Harry Hart finds himself winding his way through night-time Berlin with Gaby Teller on his arm, Napoleon Solo keeping up a non-stop commentary in his ear, and Illya Kuryakin as their stoically amused shadow. They go to the restaurant that Teller gushes about, eat like kings—Harry has quail with a blackberry vinaigrette, Kuryakin steak, Teller rabbit, and, of course, Solo goes straight for the lobster—and then Kuryakin takes them to a bar that he claims serves the best vodka this side of Moscow. Harry doesn’t exactly disagree, and they get through most of a bottle of the stuff before Solo decides it’s time to move on. Three more bars follow, each one scruffier than the last, until it’s three-thirty in the morning and they’re propping up the bar in a little underground place, Solo holding court with stories that Harry’s guessing are rife with embellishment. 

Teller finally laughs, bright like a bell, and slaps her hand over Solo’s mouth. “ _No!_ ” she exclaims. “No, _I_ was the one who did the rescuing in Thessaloniki. _You_ were unconscious. Illya was fretting over you so much that he couldn’t think about anything else, so I had to go and get the Duchess myself.” 

Kuryakin gestures with his drink. “See?” he says. “Far too good to retire.” 

“Just better than you boys,” Teller jibes back. “Total focus on the job at hand.”

Solo hums. “True,” he says, and his gaze is heavy with alcohol, thick with the early hour. “I do always seem to get… distracted.” 

Kuryakin’s cheeks are pink. “Are you blaming me?” he asks, voice husky. “Because I am not responsible for your inability to focus on the task at hand.”

“You really are,” Solo says, and grins a grin that’s full of flirtation.

Harry’s not drunk so much that he can’t read the subtext. He would say he’s surprised—this certainly isn’t in Kingsman’s extensive files on the pair—but he looks at them, at the way they are around each other, and he remembers the number of times in those file they saved each other or sacrificed themselves for each other, and it’s really not a surprise at all. 

They part ways a little after five. Kuryakin shakes Harry’s hand, Solo slaps him on the back and promises that they’ll do this again the next time he’s in London, and Teller pulls him into a warm embrace. “Keep safe,” she says, and kisses his cheek. “The world’s getting to be a dangerous place.”

“And you,” Harry answers. He spares the other two a glance—Kuryakin’s arm is slung around Solo’s shoulders, relaxed and comfortable, and it’s a position that they seem to have worn their own groove into—and says, “I can imagine they’ll keep you busy.” 

“They do,” Teller says, a glimmer in her eye, “but I wouldn’t want it any other way.” 

Harry leaves them on the streets of Berlin and heads to the airfield. His head’s fuzzy with exhilaration and alcohol, with exhaustion and fervour, and as he looks back down the street, the last thing he sees is Solo snatching Teller up, whirling her around in the air as Kuryakin laughs at their side. 

 

**2015**

Eggsy sees them for the first time at Harry’s funeral. 

It’s a small affair in the graveyard on the grounds of the Kingsman estate, and there’s no one much there beyond Kingsman agents and the estate’s staff. They stand around the graveside, hands in pockets, heads bowed against the rain that’s just starting to fall, and Merlin says words that Eggsy doesn’t listen to, words about _honour_ and _valour_ and _he was the best of us_.

Eggsy feels the name _Galahad_ like a weight around his neck. 

He stays at the grave for a while after everyone has left, loitering at the back of the crowd, and after Roxy gives his hand a final squeeze and leaves him with sadness in her eyes, he goes and stands in front of the headstone. 

_HARRY HART. 1960-2015._ And, of course, as ever, _MANNERS MAKYTH MAN._

Eggsy huffs bitterly into the cold air, says, short and sharp, “Fuck.” 

He doesn’t stay long next to that hunk of stone, doesn’t kneel in the dirt and press his cheek to the engraved letters and do all the things he thinks grief ought to look like. No, JB needs to be walked and he has mission files that need reading, a report that needs checking. Life has to go on. 

Eggsy glances back, when he reaches the treeline, glances back at the graveyard – and that’s when he sees them. Two old men, black-suited, white-haired, standing where he was just standing, looking down at the grave in silence. Eggsy doesn’t recognise them—they’re not Kingsmen, and they’re certainly not estate staff—so he pauses for a moment, watches them through the growing haze of drizzle. The smaller man crouches down, after a moment, and lays something on the fresh-turned earth that Eggsy can’t see. The taller just stands there, hands in his pockets, and when his companion straightens again, he says something that Eggsy can’t hear.

The smaller man seems to smile, and nods.

They leave, following the others back to the wake that’s been laid on in the estate, and Eggsy doesn’t think anything else of it.

He takes JB out for a trot around the grounds and avoids human contact for a little while. He knows that, to a certain extent, he’s the hero of the hour, the new agent who killed Richmond Valentine and saved the world, but right now he feels like anything but because why didn’t he fucking _do_ something? Harry’s dead and he’s alive and none of that feels right, and as much as Roxy and Merlin and everyone else assures him that it’s not his fault, that there was nothing he could have done, he can’t quite bring himself to believe them. 

He should have tried harder.

Eggsy goes back to the mansion, after a while, dries JB off and takes a shower to rid himself of the mud and the rain. He dresses in the suit that Harry had made for him, pulls on the smartest Oxfords he owns, then slots the medal that his father won and that Harry gave him around his neck, under his collar. He studies himself in the mirror and tries not to think about how he’s such a fucking fraud. 

The wake is a quiet affair, not because of a lack of people but just because Merlin chose to hold it in the fucking _ballroom_. The high ceilings disallow any attempt at volume, and Eggsy slips between staff and Kingsmen, ignoring most of them, looking for Roxy or, at a push, Merlin. He can’t find either of them, so he goes and stands in one of the bay windows, looking out at the rain-swept landscape, and tries to figure out how long he has to stay before he can slink back to JB. 

“You’re the new Galahad, aren’t you?” 

The voice is American and worn with age, and Eggsy turns, assesses. It’s one of the men he saw outside, the one who knelt and reached out to touch the headstone. His hair is white and his skin is wrinkled, but there’s still a brightness in those eyes. Eggsy feels the lump in his throat turn to stone at the lie, and he says, “Yeah, I am.” 

White-hair nods, then holds out his hand. Eggsy takes it, surprised at the firmness of the grip, and the man says, “Napoleon Solo. I’ve heard a lot about you, Eggsy.” 

_Solo_. “Likewise,” Eggsy says, and tries to remember the files he read during training, what feels like years ago but was in fact only a few weeks. “You knew Harry?” 

“We ran into each other over the years,” Solo says, and for a moment his eyes spark. “One particular time in Berlin springs to mind. He was a good man. A fantastic drinker.”

Eggsy blinks. That’s the first time someone’s said anything about Harry that wasn’t about his prowess as an agent, and he says, because it’s the only thing he can fucking _think_ to say, “Fan of Guinness.” 

“And a good martini,” Solo drawls. He takes a seat on the sofa in the bay window, pats the seat next to him. Eggsy takes it after a moment’s pause, then Solo says, “And how are you coping with all this?” 

No one’s asked him that, not even Roxy. “With all what?”

Solo shrugs. “Saving the world,” he answers, like it’s that simple. “I’ve done it a time or twelve over the years. It’s a damn heavy burden, and no one else ever really seems to realise that.” He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze searching Eggsy’s face, and he says, “I had nightmares, the first time, about failing. About what would have happened if I’d said the wrong thing, pulled the wrong trigger. And I was a lot older than you are now.” 

Eggsy absolutely does not have nightmares. Eggsy absolutely does not wake up most nights in a cold sweat, images of Roxy dead and Merlin dead and _his mum dead_ all scorched on the insides of his eyelids. “I’m fine,” he says gruffly, because none of this is anything he’s willing to share with an old man who’s just reminiscing about the past. 

Solo’s gaze is steady. “I’m sure you are,” he answers easily. “But I’m here telling you that you don’t have to be.”

“I’m fucking fine, okay?” Eggsy snaps. “I don’t need your fucking _sympathy_.”

“Not sympathy,” Solo says, sharper than Eggsy expected. “ _Empathy._ There’s a very small handful of people in this world who understand what you’re feeling right now, and I’m probably the only one in this room who’s not so repressed that I can actually acknowledge that.” He scoffs. “You Brits are all the same, and my Russian isn’t much better.” 

Eggsy can’t remember why _my Russian_ should be significant, and right about now, he doesn’t really care. “So what?” he asks. “You’re here to hold my hand? To guide me through it? Because, well, Harry already tried that, and look where that got him. In the ground.” – and that’s when Eggsy notices that his hands are trembling. He stuffs them into his pockets, ignores the sudden choke in his throat. 

Solo’s still watching him. “Good,” he says in that fucking _accent_. “That’s good. Anger is good, because otherwise you just bottle everything up and break tables.” There’s a lick of wry humour in his voice, but Eggsy somehow knows it’s not directed at him. Solo’s quiet for a moment longer, and then he says, “I lost a friend of mine recently.” 

Eggsy’s spine stiffens. 

Solo must notice the movement, because he chuckles, says, “Don’t worry, I’m not after your pity. Just listen. I lost a friend recently, a very good friend. More like a sister, really. She was part of all this, too—” He gestures around them, at the ballroom and the mourners and the buffet table full of Harry’s favourite foods. Eggsy understands. “—and, damn, she was good at it. Better than me, in the end, although don’t tell anyone I said that. Saved my life half a dozen times, and I saved hers more in return. We worked together for twenty years, almost, and I could always trust her to pull my ass out of the fire.” 

Eggsy licks his lips. “What happened?”

“Cancer,” Solo says, quiet and withdrawn, then he looks at Eggsy, smiles a lopsided smile. “Bullets and knives and torture, that I could help with. Nazis and terrorists, them, too. But cancer?” He shakes his head. “We did everything we could, went and broke into half a hundred secret military research centres, trying to find a cure, but there was nothing. We just had to sit at her side and watch her fade away.” 

“I’m sorry,” Eggsy says, and he is, he really is. There’s more grief in the world than just his. 

“I said I didn’t want your pity,” Solo says, and the pain in his voice is underlaid with affection, now. “No, the point is that I’ve saved the world a hundred times, but I couldn’t save her. And the thing is? Those two things aren’t the same, not even a little bit. They don’t compare, so you _can’t_ compare them, you just can’t. That’s a spiral of guilt and shame and anger, and, well—” He snorts. “—I’ve seen what anger and shame can do to a good hotel room, and that’s not a path you want to be going down, trust me.” 

“But—” Eggsy’s spoken before he can catch himself, and he swallows the words, looks away. 

“But what?” Solo prompts.

Too late, now, Eggsy figures. “But that’s not the same,” he says. “Harry was shot in the head by the nutter who was planning a fucking genocide. I saw it happen, I _watched_ it happen.” 

“Were you there?”

Eggsy blinks. “What?”

“Were you there?” Solo asks again. “In the church, when it happened. Were you there?”

“How do you know it happened in a church?”

Solo rolls his eyes. “I might be old,” he says, “but I still have security clearance. Answer the question, son.”

Eggsy’s quiet for a moment. “No,” he answers finally. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Exactly,” Solo says. “There was nothing you could’ve done to help, and, by the sounds of things, if you had been there, you would be dead as well and right now the world would be a hell of a quieter place.” 

“I thought you said that saving friends and saving the world don’t compare.”

“No,” Solo answers. “No, they don’t. But that doesn’t mean that all the bad in the world makes all the good irrelevant.” 

Eggsy doesn’t answer that. He doesn’t think he can. 

After a while, Solo says, “I’m sorry about Harry. He deserved better.” 

Eggsy finds his voice. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he says. 

Solo’s lips twist. “She was at peace, at the end,” he says. “In this line of work, that’s more than a lot of people get. She was one of the lucky ones.” He turns to face Eggsy fully, his shoulders broader, and says, “And thank you for saving the world.” 

Eggsy thinks about the files he’s read, about the Vinciguerra affair and the Allaya incident, about Venice and Montreal and Canberra, and says, “You probably get some credit for that, too.” 

Solo waves him away. “I’m the old guard,” he says. “Mind control via cell phones? Give me a thermonuclear warhead any day.” He pauses, seems to reconsider, then laughs. “Maybe there’s some room for old fashioned, still. The only reason we survived Valentine’s little massacre was because Peril’s so paranoid he still has our house surrounded by jamming devices. I didn’t even realise anything had _happened_ until I woke up and saw someone had smashed in our front window.” 

Eggsy’s eyebrows quirk upwards. “Jammers?” he says. “I’m pretty sure the signal got through ours.”

“I build my own,” a Russian voice says, and Eggsy looks up to see the other white-haired old man, blue eyes smiling. “Other people’s work is unreliable.” He looks between Eggsy and Solo, says, “Is he annoying you, Galahad? I can remove him.” 

_Galahad._ Spoken so easily, so calmly, with no weight of expectation behind it. _Galahad._ Maybe Eggsy can do this, after all, and he says, “I think I can deal with an old-timer like this.” Solo splutters next to him, mock-outraged, but Eggsy stands, offers the Russian a hand, says, “Eggsy Unwin. Good to meet you.”

Those blue eyes sparkle. “Illya Kuryakin,” the Russian says, shaking the offered hand with the same surprising strength that was in Solo’s grip. “Welcome to the intelligence community. From what Merlin has told me of your work so far, I think that we will be glad to have you.” 

 

__

_finis_


End file.
